Nu Metal
by Crystal Volcheck
Summary: "So, what do we call this?" blue eyes met green once more, as Alfred tangled their fingers together. "I don't know. It's certainly new though isn't it?" To different genres come together to find that they're not so different after all. AU One-Shot USUK


**Honestly, I came across this in an old folder of mine, so I typed it added a little detail, but mostly left it as when I first wrote it. Since I'm not quite sure what was on my mind when I came up with it, all I can figure is I somehow used music genres to create USUK**

**Rock/Punk/Metal + Rap = Nu Metal**

**England + America = USUK/UKUS**

**So anyway enjoy, I don't own Hetalia, this was just satisfy my fangirl needs.**

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Nu Metal

Everything about them was different, looks, sound, and leaders. A rivalry that could be traced back for years, even if no one was sure just where or how it had begun.

Sky blue eyes met acid green from opposite ends of the hall, both clearly reading, 'Don't fuck with me.' Silence settled over as those blue eyes trailed over a lean body clothed in torn red skinny jeans that left nothing to the imagination, half hidden by almost knee high combat boots scuffed from years of use. The white t-shirt seemed to fit even tighter than the jeans, several anarchy symbols printed in every direction were broken by rips in the shirt, but any chance for a glimpse at bare skin was taken by the black fishnet beneath. Thick leather wrist bands looked bulky on thin arms and slender hands, but that went unnoticed due to the shining silver bars and hoops decorating a sharp slightly elfish face.

All the while those acid green eyes trailed over baggy over worn jeans, teasing ever so slightly as they barely hung from narrow hips poorly concealed by the black elastic of boxers. A loose white ribbed tank clung to a broad chest and shoulders to match, hidden only slightly by an unsightly over-sized black hoodie decorated with graffiti. Brilliant gold chains hung down to the middle of that broad chest, most of them plain except for one that had a single simple cross. There was nothing to obscure the face however, clean and clear-cut like an actor straight from Hollywood.

A smirk played over their lips, receiving the same message. What would it be like to mix things up? Take a walk down a darkened alley or grind in a mosh pit of strangers who you don't know. Break a few rules together, a few laws as well. Fight back to back instead of against one another, put on a good show, and mix business with pleasure. One deliberately firm step forward and the silence shattered, each group staring at their respective leaders in worry. Not once had an actual fight occurred between them, but a few braver or stupider souls spoke the loudest wanting to brawl.

"Kick the faggot's ass, bro."

"Make that wannbe cry like the bitch he is."

The catcalls were pointedly ignored as the two leaders continued to step forward, silencing the groups as their own dialogue began.

"You want to challenge me Jones?" the punk spat first, words as acid as the green in his eyes.

"I just wanna know how you get in those jeans, Kirkland. Must got no dick." A smirk played off the gangster's lips in return wanting the other to take the bait. Which fortunately for him the other did, catching on within seconds. Why not mix business with pleasure?

"I wonder what you're trying to compensate for with yours."

"That ain't compensating, babe. It's a defense to keep the ladies from overreacting."

"Perhaps your ego is." Eyes ever left each other, searching for what the real intent was in the mess of words they were leaving.

"Sounds like you're interested," blue eyes sparked dangerously as the punk's face darkened with a blush.

"Interested, in you turning tale back to whatever street gutter you crawled out of."

"Maybe you'd like to go back with me?"

"Not to hear you mock other peoples' pain. It's a joke to you, just like it's a joke to everyone else as well." The words sparked something in the gangster's mind, hearing the bitterness in the other's voice. He had always thought that it was his group mocked and ridiculed, not by the punks, but by every walking cliché of a group that existed in the school. It had always been that way, only the punks had a tendency to fight back, which was why he always tended to be harsher on them. He knew the pain though, knew it just as well as Arthur Kirkland. His group was always called out for the bull they talked, of course it wasn't real, just a shell to hide in. The bigger the talk the better the façade, the more real he felt even as he downed a bottle of pills that were guaranteed to keep him smiling.

"We feel pain too. We just learned to not put it on display." The atmosphere changed with his words, causing Arthur to look at Alfred F. Jones in a different light. Was the sunny blond really as fake as him? He hadn't taken the time to look around at the others, always too focused on how his group was a walking contradiction. They would scream for anarchy, believing that that was the only way they could bring order into their lives. It was a miserable existence, at least for him it was, he could feel a small glimmer of hope swell in his chest, but quickly crushed it with his next words.

"I highly doubt your pain is the same." A frown crossed Alfred's face, something Arthur had never seen before. He could feel his heart begin to beat rapidly as the sunny blond leaned closer, his lips barely brushing his own.

"It's probably close enough." There was a collective gasp from the two sides, but it went unheard by the two blonds. It was different from other kisses either of them had, there was nothing to go from, no similar rhythm or beat. Hesitantly they continued, in hope of falling in sync, the underlying feeling there. Then everything fell into place, a perfect mix of what they both were. Screams that sounded like they were being torn from the throat as the aggression doubled, heavy bass seeming to pound in time with their hearts, and words flying in tongue-tying metaphors as they pulled away for breath. But only for a breath before they deepened the connection.

So different, to the point of being almost identical, it made no sense to them or anyone watching them, it just seemed to fit.

"It seems you're not trying to compensate for anything after all." Arthur chuckled, their bodies pressed tightly together, a tangle of limbs.

"Maybe I'll learn how you get out of your pants, instead." Alfred smirked in return feeling that the punk's pants still did leave quite a bit to the imagination. Slowly the two began to untangle themselves from each other, becoming aware of the murmurs around them.

"What cha looking at? Show's over!" the sunny blond spat looking at both groups, keeping an arm around Arthur's thin waist as he remained silent only glaring at his group as a command to follow Alfred's orders. Which many didn't seem so keen on doing.

"Get the fuck out of here." He snarled harshly, causing the lingering few to scatter as well, leaving just the two of them in the now empty hall. "Finally," Arthur breathed leaning against Alfred, who could feel the other teen relax.

"So, what do we call this?" blue eyes met green once more, as Alfred tangled their fingers together.

"I don't know. It's certainly new though isn't it?"


End file.
